RattlingtheCage

Rattling the Cage

Ann Cory

Montana Lee wants a life outside of
Rattler City, Nevada, a hellhole of a town where the law strikes fear in its
residents. Slapped with a reputation from a mother she hardly knew and a debt
that keeps her slaving for pennies at the bar, her dream of escaping to become
a dancer remains out of reach. But the winds change when a muscle-bound drifter
named Lawson struts into town exuding danger and an undercurrent of raw sexual
energy. Convinced he’s the key to her escape, Montana makes it a priority to
capture his attention.

Anger and darkness have consumed
Lawson for years, leading him back to the town that robbed him of his
childhood. His plans for vengeance are simple—find the stolen money, kill the
one responsible for the demise of his family and destroy the town. He didn’t
count on Montana
or
her will to seduce…both proving impossible to
ignore.

Rattling the Cage

Ann Cory

Dedication

For the ladies who understand and love a complex man.

Chapter One

He breezed into the bar, a flurry of rough denim and
attitude. Fire blazed behind his silvery-blue eyes. Jaws clenched as though he
had fangs for teeth. The glimmer of a dimple in his left cheek as he twisted
his face into a sneer gave away the fact that he was indeed human. In one fluid
motion he grabbed the pool stick from one of the regulars and slammed the
unsuspecting cuss up against the wall.

“I don’t like scum who touch my truck. Catch my drift?”

Amos shook in his raggedy-ass boots, and if he hadn’t been
wearing his oversized coat, everyone else would have noticed him piss his
pants. Montana Lee happened to have been close enough to smell the pungent
odor, but ignored it, too intrigued by the testosterone-induced altercation.

The Stetson-wearing stranger let go of Amos and the
sniveling man sank to the floor, the whites of his eyes stained yellow in the
dim light. No one spoke. No one moved. Even the jukebox quieted.

Mister Mysterious guzzled back a pint of beer and propped
his body against the bar. Montana remembered how her limbs worked and shut off
the water faucet before the sink overflowed. A shattered shot glass lay at her
feet.

He was the roughest thing she’d seen in all her twenty-three
years. His fine ass filled out tight black jeans, and a well-chiseled chest
peeked out from his white shirt missing its top two buttons. From beneath his
hat, dark shoulder-length hair, black as oil, beckoned her fingers to run
through it, and his eyes raged like a butcher after a fresh killing.

He glanced in her direction and she almost swallowed her
gum. She wondered how he liked his women.

She wanted to be his woman, if only for a night.

Again the dimple made its appearance, and a hint of mischief
accompanied his smile.

From his back pocket he pulled out a wad of bills and tossed
it onto the countertop. Montana jutted out her breasts and leaned over for
show. While not model perfect, her lean muscles and curves provoked attention.

To her dismay, his eyes remained upright.

Stung by his disinterest, she pivoted and pushed a loose
hair from her brow. Feeding his ego didn’t rate high on her priority list.

Montana snagged a dishtowel and busied herself with drying
glasses. She blew a large pink bubble with her gum to the count of ten, sucked
it back in and faced the now empty space at the bar.

The door ahead swung shut.

On the floor, Amos snored, oblivious to the dark stain on
his pants. With the tip of her boot, she poked his side.

“Amos?”

His eyes opened a crack and a jack-o’-lantern grin bunched
his wrinkled face. “What’s a pretty girl like you doing working in a place like
this?”

She scooped her arms under his back to help him up. The foul
combination of body odor, whiskey and urine hit hard and sent her stomach into
spasms.

Blinking back tears, she hollered, “Can I get some help
here?”

Bigsby, a regular, pulled him to his feet.

“Thanks,” she said, impressed by the scrawny man’s strength.

“Sure thing, girly. Whatcha gonna do for me in return?”

Montana ignored his unsettling question and beamed at Amos.
“Now, you best get on home, you hear? Ava will be worried.”

Amos staggered between tables along his path to the door,
toppling chairs and offending drinkers with his stench. She considered propping
the door open to air out the place but changed her mind when deafening cheers
erupted. Some leotard-wearing bastard on TV got thrown into the ropes, flew a
good two feet back into the ring, only to meet an outstretched arm of his
opponent that sent him into a stupor for the full count of ten.

Montana rolled her eyes and straightened salt shakers on
tables. She wondered about the stranger’s intentions in the hell-hole known as
Rattler City, Nevada. Other than gravel roads and withering old buildings,
there wasn’t much for people to see. She’d wanted out since the day she’d
arrived.

Her eyes flickered to the clock. The second hand taunted her
with its penchant to slow during the final minutes of work. Sometimes stopping
altogether. She drummed her nails along the countertop. The activity around her
disappeared into a pink haze as she blew bubble after bubble.

At midnight her breath whooshed out and noise resumed.

She cupped her hands around her mouth. “Okay, boys, time to
go home. See ya’ll tomorrow.”

The men filed out as if they were headed off to war. After a
brief check throughout the bar and toilet for stragglers, she locked the door.

“Finally. Some goddamn peace around here.”

Montana swept up the broken shot glass, wiped down tables,
stacked chairs and restocked napkins. The register added up right for a
change—her tips, not so much. The blue-and-chrome jukebox, her one true vice,
played an upbeat tune. Most nights she’d stay late and dance. Her dream of
performing onstage never far from her mind.

She leaned against the jukebox with its blinking
electric-blue lights. Through the window she admired the moon. She longed to
reach out and grasp its crescent point, to find something worthwhile to hold
onto that would spirit her away. To start over in a new place without a
reputation hanging over her like a noose.

Deemed a lowlife piece of trash from folks in the town, she
didn’t expect to amount to anything. Her blink-and-you-missed-it childhood
consisted of a beat-up trailer, a neglectful mother who died too young and a
string of so-called uncles, some who paid her the wrong kind of attention. When
it came to men, she knew to watch her back.

The dark-haired drifter returned to her thoughts. He’d
stirred up a dust cloud deep within her soul. An unbearable, restless ache. She
pictured his hands. Manly. Tornado strong. Able to fling grown men like Amos,
or leotard-wearing bastards like the guy from TV, into oblivion. Able to hoist
her up and around his waist and take her hard against the wall.

A slow burn smoldered between her thighs.

Dragging herself away from the window, she checked the safe,
grabbed her keys and locked up. Outside, the dry heat invaded her body like a
dirty old man.

Her skin bristled at the familiar rattle and hum of Deputy
Garvey’s car. He pulled alongside her, leaving little room to walk.

“Hey, beautiful. Lookin’ hot tonight.”

Musty cigar and cheap booze emanated from his car.

She angled her face his way, pinched her nose and waved him
on. Though three years older, he didn’t act it, and with his curly blond hair,
he didn’t look it either.

“How ’bout I get a bucket of ice and help cool you off.”

Montana stopped. “I let a bunch of drunken men out of the
bar not even ten minutes ago. Shouldn’t you be driving up and down Duncan
Street?”

“Now why would I be looking after some drunkards when
there’s a mighty right vision in need of an escort home?” His dirt-brown eyes
reflected his unsavory intentions.

She glanced forward. An empty road lay ahead. Not a witness
in sight. The scenario she expected if she climbed into his car didn’t appeal in
the least. Even with a deputy. The law in Rattler City didn’t protect its
citizens. The law frightened them.

She dragged the toe of her boot along the loose gravel.
“Look, I’ve told you before, I prefer to walk home. It’s the only time I’m
outside all day. Besides, my legs need a good stretch.”

Garvey’s lips molded into a distorted shape. “I can think of
other ways to stretch those legs of yours.”

Her body tensed at the visual. “Thanks, but no.”

Eyes wild, he rolled up the window halfway. “One of these days
I’m going to haul your sweet ass into my car and give you a helluva ride.”

“Doubt that.”

For years he’d spouted veiled threats about getting with
her.

“Last chance.”

“No chance,” she said and continued on. The gravel dug into
her boots, making it impossible to move fast enough.

Garvey revved the engine and spun the car, sending rocks at
the back of her legs.

“Stupid asshole,” she mumbled.

She’d never be desperate enough to settle for the likes of
Garvey. But he’d continue hounding her until the day she left town. And Montana
wanted out now.

Dance halls beckoned with spotlights and glittering outfits.
Her name flashing on the marquee. The need to escape rippled through her veins.
She attributed it to the stranger’s arrival. Stuck didn’t seem a state of mind
he’d ever find himself in. He’d mentioned a truck. With him she’d have a ride
and protection.

Renewed energy quickened her pace. After a shower to slough
away the booze and cigarettes and drunk men from her skin, she’d figure out a
way to convince the drifter to get her away from her empty life, and out of
Rattler City.

Chapter Two

His eyes watered at the cloying fungus and underlying smoke
in the motel room. Rattler City reeked of lies and deceit.

Eyelids heavy, he collapsed onto the bed. Rain pelted the
window like a child plunking piano keys. He hated the rain. It gave his
shoulder grief.

Lawson scratched at the two-day stubble on his chin. His
initial idea to keep a low profile failed. Set off by the reed-thin man pissing
on the rear tire of his truck, he’d lost his cool. Not that he cared what
others thought, he did regret his tantrum in front of the sultry brunette. He
liked how she flirted, breathtaking with her green, cat-like eyes and rose-red
lips. He’d have preferred his hands on her lissome body rather than around a
drunk’s neck. With her lean legs tucked into high-heel fuck-me boots, she
reminded him of a not-so-innocent Snow White trapped in a cavern of perverted
old men.

Arm draped over his eyes, he groaned. His purpose in Rattler
City didn’t allow time for women and he reiterated to himself his strict
policies—never form attachments. Never buy a woman. Keep thoughts from both
heads separated. Rules created after one too many mishaps.

Lawson rummaged a silver dollar from his pocket and let it
tumble back and forth along his knuckles. His grandmother’s last words echoed
in his mind.

You think the coin’s worthless now, but I guarantee it
will be priceless when you need it most.

The silver dollar was all he had left of her. Someday he
hoped to understand the meaning behind her words.

He rolled to his side and his gaze followed the spidery
cracks along the mustard-colored walls. Years of planning and preparing, and
finally, he was where he wanted…and didn’t want to be. Come morning he’d scope
out the town and scout people for information. In return he’d feed them
whatever they wanted. Food. Money. Bullshit.

He flopped to his back and pressed the silver dollar to his
lips, its smooth surface warm. “They’re all going to pay,” he said. “Just like
I said they would.”

The coils inside the mattress poked into his body. Injuries
left him no stranger to pain. His usual remedy of beer until he blacked out
wouldn’t cut it. For the next few days, he needed his thoughts clear and
reflexes sharp. It took focus to kill a man and torch a town.

* * * * *

Sunshine seeped in through the flimsy moth-eaten curtains
far too early in his opinion. Lawson moved to a sitting position and snarled.
Sharp stabbing pain sliced through his shoulder. Damn rain. Head against the
wall, he waited until the room stopped spiraling.

He teetered into the bathroom for a shower. Nerve-shattering
clangs resounded from the pipes, and blobs of rusty water splattered the tile.
He fought with the knob until it stopped and then tried the faucet. Clear water
poured out. Hurriedly, he scrubbed his face and hair and dressed in a fresh
shirt and jeans. Lawson ran his hand through his hair and dropped his dusky
black hat on his head. The brief sleep had done him good. Before he hit the
town he aimed to find something greasy with a pound and a half of ketchup.

An elderly man with the name Frank on his shirt sat behind
the front desk, his nose in a tattered book.

Lawson rapped his knuckles on the desk. “Morning.”

“Morning, sir,” the man wheezed. “What can I do for you?”

“Tell me where I can get a decent meal around here.”

“That would be Libby’s.” Frank pointed a bony finger across
the street toward a building with pasty windows. “If you don’t mind greasy
fried food.”

Lawson punched himself in the gut. “Got an iron stomach.
Grease works for me.”

“Suit yerself.”

“About the shower.” He hated to complain but sink baths
weren’t his style. “All I get is rusty water.”

A reddish tinge mottled the man’s face. “I’m sorry, sir.
I’ll fix it straight away. We don’t get many overnight visitors.”

He figured. “Much appreciated.”

Lawson followed the tempting aroma of grease into Libby’s.

“Be right with ya, honey.” A cherub-faced woman smiled in
his direction and hiked a large tray over the heads of people eating as she
made her way to a back table. Bacon, eggs and fresh hash browns frying made his
stomach turn flip-flops. He barely remembered the last good meal he’d eaten.

Libby returned and ushered him through a maze of tables.
“It’s a right busy morning, sugar. Credit day and all. You mind sharing part of
a table with another group? I’m fresh outta empty chairs.”

Too hungry to argue, Lawson nodded. “I suppose not.”

“I’ll seat you with Russ and Corbet. They be fine men and
won’t give you trouble.”

His gaze followed to the table. They looked decent enough.
He just wanted food.

“I’m Libby, in case you didn’t read the sign out front. Here
we go.” She pulled out the chair and slapped a menu in his hands. “Gentlemen,
we got us a hungry man who needs a seat. Ya’ll won’t mind sharing, will ya?”

Both men tipped their ball caps at the woman and shook their
heads.

“Sure thing. A man’s gotta eat. Have a seat, mister. Gotta
git here early if you’s wanna table to yerself.”

“Thanks. I’ll know better next time.” Lawson set his hat on
the table and squeezed into a seat more accustomed for the undernourished.

“You know what you want, darlin’, or should I give you a
few?”

He glanced at Libby’s apple cheeks and watched her long
earrings sway. “I’d like a big plate of hash browns, eggs over easy and the
greasiest bacon you can do.”

Her eyes lit like fireworks. “You’re a guy after my own
heart. Be right back with your order.”

“First time in Rattler City, mister?”

Lawson turned his attention from the bright-yellow walls and
fixtures to his table mates. They were comical in their overalls.

“Been here once, long time ago.”

“You here visitin’ a friend?”

He brushed invisible lint from his Stetson. “Don’t have
friends around here. Thought I’d take a breather on my way to Washington. Place
seems nice enough.”

The men leered at one another, their brows disappearing into
their caps. “Name’s Corbet.” He reached forward and Lawson returned the
handshake. “Ain’t reckon we ever heard anyone use them two words together about
this town. Whatcha think, Russ?”

With his big belly and green cap, his friend looked every
bit the part of a country farmer. “Nope. I’ve seen turtles race through these
parts, if you catch my drift.”

Lawson leaned forward on his elbows. “Hm. I must be missing
something.”

Corbet sucked up the rest of what looked like coffee and
shook his head. “You see, ain’t nuthin’ but poor folk ’round here. Trash.
That’s what the sheriff calls us. No good, filthy trash. This town has nuthin’
to offer travelers ’cept a warning. Spend yer money or git the hell out.”

Russ wiped his forehead with a checkered handkerchief. “It’s
true. Sheriff don’t like strangers pokin’ where they don’t belong. So, if you’s
gotta notion in yer head ’bout staying, I’d think twice.”

“If everyone’s so poor, how do you have the money to eat and
drink?”

“We’re on a credit system here,” Corbet explained. “Russ and
I yield some decent crops each year, so we ain’t as bad off as most folks. If
you prove yer worth, you can eat well enough. But you have to mind yer
business.”

Lawson processed the information and then lowered his voice.
“What can you tell me about Clint Mitchum?”

Both men visibly shuddered. Russ leaned in. “Mitchum runs
this place with an iron fist. You don’t wanna git in his face. He has no
problem shootin’ for the sake of shootin’.”

Lawson leaned back in his chair at the same time Libby
arrived with his plate.

“Here ya go, honey. You enjoy. Can I get you something to
whet your whistle?”

“Water will do.”

He smothered the hash browns with ketchup and dug into the
food as if it was his last meal. His new friends kept talking.

“People ’round here are too scared to complain about the way
we’s treated, see. The law don’t work for no one but the law.”

Russ peered around before he added, “If I was you, I’d hole
up somewhere’s else.”

Libby breezed by and left a glass of water in her wake. The
two men blinked and sat back, beads of sweat dotting their foreheads.

He hated seeing good, honest folk bullied. Not even a full
day in town and he pitied the residents. Satisfied from all the grease, Lawson
patted his stomach. “See, I’m one of those curious types. The more you tell me
to go, the more I’m itching to stay.” He grabbed a toothpick and worked it
between his teeth.

Russ thumbed his overall straps. “It’s yer funeral.”

He chuckled. “There will be a funeral around here, boys, but
it won’t be mine. I told you I didn’t have friends here, and that’s the truth.
But what I do have is an enemy.”

In unison the farmers quipped, “Who?”

“Clint Mitchum.”

Eyes wide, both men drew invisible crosses across their
chests. “We won’t say nuthin’, mister. Promise.”

He managed a sincere smile. “The thought never crossed my
mind. I trust you.” After an intentional dramatic pause he said, “Well, fellas,
where do I pay, here or…”

“Alls you gotta do is flag down Libby,” Corbet offered.
“She’s a peach.”

Lawson’s mind shifted to another peach. The one from the
bar.

He caught Libby’s attention and pulled out some bills from
his wallet.

“Anything else I can get you, sugar?” The wrinkles around
the woman’s eyes showed her age, and at the same time her smile erased a few.

“Nope. Best food I’ve had in months. What’s the damage?”

“Seven dollars.”

“Here’s ten. Keep the change. I’ll be back.”

“That’s what I like to hear. Have yerself a good day,
honey.”

Lawson got up and lodged his wallet into his back pocket. He
grabbed his hat and another toothpick. “Nice meeting you, fellas. I appreciated
the company.”

“You just ’member what we said ’bout the law,” Russ
whispered. “We can’t do nuthin’ to help ya if you’s git thrown in the slammer.
Or worse.”

Again he tipped his head. “Appreciate the sentiment.”

With his belly full, he sauntered outside. The muggy heat
gripped him in a stronghold. Lawson donned his hat and contemplated which
direction to go.

And then he saw the peach.

Her short skirts and shapely legs were going to be the death
of him. He stepped back inside Libby’s and watched from the doorway until she’d
passed.

Feeling foolish for hiding from a woman, he cursed and
headed in the opposite direction. At the end of the street, all indecent
thoughts of the brunette halted. His adrenaline spiked. Fists tightened. The
sharp odor of lies and deceit polluted the air. Evil walked these streets. Evil
by the name of Clint Mitchum.

Lawson forced his shoulders down and his feet to keep
moving. What lay ahead had haunted him for too long. The time to face his past
drew near.